Barely there: One woman’s reflections on Anorexia

It is not often that I feel that language can’t properly allow me to capture a moment, construct an argument, or create something new.

But sharing my experience with anorexia is different.

Words feel wholly inadequate to frame and describe what my eating disorder is like in the most basic sense, let alone to offer any meaningful insights that might comfort someone managing similar circumstances, or educate someone who may be unfamiliar with, or hold preconceptions about, the condition.

In fact, recounting these few small aspects of my experience feels indulgent, almost sinful (ironically, given my disorder is firmly rooted in prolonged and systematic deprivation).

So, I can only try to shed some faint light on my experience of anorexia’s complexity, knowing that the events and feelings I describe are messy (and potentially triggering for some), fragmented, and by no means exhaustive. And I am acutely aware that the learnings I take from these, though ever evolving, are mine alone.

I also need to preface my reflections with a note on temporality. Time has blurred for me since my disorder has deteriorated, so any attempt I have made at chronology is designed to give some semblance of structure to my addled thoughts (rather than to provide a definitive timeline of my experiences).

May
In the back of my mind, as soon as I turned my out of office on, I knew there was a risk. Outside of my scheduled treatment appointments, shapeless days seemed to stretch before me. My eating disorder quickly filled that space, giving my days a sense of structure and purpose that, at the time, felt difficult to let go of.

Indeed, I found myself becoming increasingly consumed by behaviours that kept me trapped in my eating disorder. Looking back, I can see how much my eating disorder had tied my sense of achievement and self-worth to the illness itself.

June
It was an uncharacteristically sunny day. After weeks of steady rain, the brightness was disconcerting, and I found myself squinting as I pulled up a chair with my colleagues in the outdoor dining area. Ordering lunch brought up a great deal of anxiety. I found myself trying to quiet the eating disorder thoughts that told me I wasn’t safe while engaging in small talk about the weather.

As our burgers and sandwiches arrived, I repeated some of the truisms I’ve explored during my 18 months of psychological and dietetics treatment in my mind – ‘It’s just food. Nothing bad will happen if you eat. You are safe. It will all be okay.’

Even though I ate my lunch, the emotional distress I experienced overshadowed that little win, and I found myself trying to come to grips with how much isolating myself had allowed my anorexia to flourish.

That evening, I slipped back into familiar eating disorder behaviours in an attempt to manage my feelings. At the time, those behaviours felt reassuring, even though I knew they were keeping me stuck. I also knew there were other strategies I could have used to cope with those emotions, but my inner critic berated me so much that my little victory from earlier in the day may as well not have happened at all.

Now
Over the course of my treatment (but more so as a not-so-closet nerd who likes books) I have read accounts of individuals with anorexia who describe experiencing a frenetic energy, as if spurred on by their starvation – They appear to be thinking, working, and achieving things despite their illness.

As much as I wish I related to those experiences, I can instead comfortably call myself a husk of a human – frail, struggling, most days to hold a simple conversation, and my brain blank more often than not (One of the few thoughts that has come to me with some clarity is that, if I were to soundtrack my experience with anorexia, the theme song would be ‘If Only I Had a Brain’).

I occasionally manage to tenuously grasp strands of thought, and I try to hold onto them and make them into something real and meaningful, but for the most part, I feel them float away from me as quickly as they arrived, like the puff of a dandelion on a breeze.

I live in a fairly constant state of flux. My physical and mental risk levels are inconsistent, the possibility of treatment escalating hangs over me, and the reality of the medical damage this disorder has done is becoming slowly, inevitably clearer.

I grapple every day with the chokehold anorexia has on me – I know it is breaking me physically and mentally, but I find myself, more often than not, craving the pain.

While I have found moments of respite and peace – through talking with people I trust (including in therapy), re-engaging with old passions, and being brave enough to find some new ones – imagining a more stable life which isn’t bound by restriction and compensation is still isn’t something I trust myself to do, yet.

So I can’t give closure, and I don’t really have any wise advice or actionable suggestions for recovery. All I can offer is the idea that, through all of the turmoil and messiness and darkness that an eating disorder can cause, there can be glimmers of hope, even if it might feel hard to find them.